


A Nasty Piece of Work [+podfic]

by picascribit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Canon Compliant, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Europe, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Graphic Description, Horror, Implied Bestiality, Implied necrophilia, Little Red Riding Hood - Freeform, Male Entitlement, Masturbation, Menstruation, Misogyny, Muggle Werewolf, Muggles, Murder, Origin Story, Original Werewolf Character - Freeform, POV Abuser, POV Female Character, POV Original Female Character, POV Villain, Pedophilia, Podfic, Podfic Length: 1-1.5 Hours, Rape, Sadism, Seduction, Slut Shaming, Stalking, Victim Blaming, Violence, Werewolves, albania, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picascribit/pseuds/picascribit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1951: Fenrir Greyback isn't a monster because he's a werewolf; he became a werewolf because he's a monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This story is very dark, very violent, and contains some very graphic rape.
> 
> Hover over non-English terms for translation.
> 
> Edited August 2014
> 
>  **Podfic**  
>  **Duration:** 1 hr 10 min  
>  **Size:** 63.4 MB  
>  **Download:** [.zip file of mp3s @ Mediafire](http://www.mediafire.com/download/5jyffy2a06rpjxi/A_Nasty_Piece_Of_Work.zip)  
> 

Fenton Gray was a nasty piece of work. He delighted in terrorising anyone smaller and weaker than himself, and he was a big, brawny boy, so that included almost everyone. When twelve-year-old Marcellus Lyon's friends brought him into the hospital wing with a badly broken arm, none of them would say how it had happened (Fenton had been curious to know what sound it would make when it snapped), but Madam Zeller, the Hogwarts matron, had her suspicions. She saw a steady stream of patients -- usually two or three per week -- suffering from hexes and physical injuries, and all too frightened to say who had caused them. Everyone knew that if they blabbed, Fenton would find out, and make it even worse for them the next time. 

As he grew older, he found new ways of terrorising people -- boys, girls; it made no difference to him -- that they were too ashamed even to go to the matron about. He told them that it was their own fault. "He looked at me." "She was wearing a short skirt." "What were you doing out alone after dark?" But really, Fenton did not need an excuse for the ways he treated people. He liked it, making them do what he wanted, and then making them apologise to him afterwards for what was only the bad luck of catching his attention. 

Even his fellow Slytherins were afraid of him. The only person at Hogwarts who seemed to appreciate Fenton's penchant for violence was Conrad Crabbe, the Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, on which Fenton held the position of Beater, but even Crabbe was frustrated by the number of matches in which Fenton was sidelined as punishment for badly fouling other players. 

People whispered that Fenton had inherited his savage nature from his grandfather. Ezra Gray had been a werewolf, they said. Of course, no one said it too loudly, or anywhere that Fenton might hear them. His family kept it hushed up, because of the shame, but it was hard to keep a scandal as big as that a secret in a community the size of Wizarding Britain. 

They were wrong, though; they need not have whispered. Fenton was not ashamed of having a werewolf in his family. He was proud. 

Fenton could barely remember his grandfather. He had been only six when Ezra died. But he remembered how his grandfather had told him stories of fabulous adventures and doted on him and promised him adventures of his own when he grew up. How his grandfather had made him feel _special_. 

And he remembered how other people had looked at his grandfather. Or not looked at him. How they had crossed the road when they saw him coming. Sometimes they shouted things. One girl had thrown a rock. It had missed Ezra, hitting Fenton on the cheek. His grandfather had wiped the blood from his face with a thumb and said with a smile, "Don't you pay them any mind, Fen. They're just jealous because we're better than them." Fenton still had the scar. He was very proud of it. That, and the belief in being _better_ were all he had left of his grandfather. 

Fenton was passionately curious about werewolves. He wanted to meet one. Talk to him. See him change, if possible. It was the only subject he cared much about. It frustrated him that no one at Hogwarts was willing to teach anything about them. They did not think it important, since lycanthropy had been all but eradicated in Britain over the past century. Fenton's grandfather had been one of the last werewolves on the island. Professor Drummond, the Defence mistress, only touched on the subject in passing a few times, and Professor Kettleburn, who taught Care of Magical Creatures, never mentioned them at all. 

Fenton had heard they were not so tight-lipped at the Durmstrang Institute on the continent, but his parents had not wanted to send him there. They had seen the wildness in him, and hoped that Hogwarts would civilise him. Durmstrang had a reputation for encouraging people like Fenton. 

In his fifth year at Hogwarts, when he should have been studying for his OWLs, Fenton spent his afternoons and weekends devouring everything the school library had to offer on the subject of werewolves. When the school librarian flatly refused to let him borrow anything from the Restricted Section, he bullied students with more innocent faces into checking the books out for him. The rarer volumes, he kept for his private collection, reading them over and over again. 

When the moon was full, Fenton found it impossible to sleep. He swore he could feel the moonlight singing in his blood, the tingle of it where it touched his skin. He spent those nights staring out the high window of his dungeon dormitory, or up in the Astronomy tower, or prowling the school grounds. 

Spring came and Fenton sat his OWLs. His marks were lacklustre, but he did not care. Hogwarts had taught him all it could. He knew more about lycanthropy than probably anyone else in Britain. Everything from the werewolf's shortened lifespan to its insatiable libido as the moon waxed full to the places that they were known to congregate in the forests of Eastern Europe. He was ready for a different sort of education. 

Professor Slughorn, the head of Slytherin House, could not hide his relief when Fenton informed him that he would not be returning to study towards his NEWTs. Even Professor Dumbledore, the Transfiguration master, who usually saw the best in everyone, seemed pleased that he was going. No one would miss him, but that did not matter. He spent his last few weeks at Hogwarts making certain that he would be remembered. ("You won't forget me, will you?" he asked the third year whose name he had already forgotten. "No, Fen," the boy sniffled as he tried to pull his trousers up with trembling hands. He liked it when they called him "Fen".) 

* * *

He decided on Albania for his expedition, as he liked to think of it. Like Britain, most of Europe frowned on werewolves gathering together in groups, preferring instead to keep them isolated and under watch, so that they would not get any ideas about running free in packs. However, large swaths of Eastern Europe consisted of underpopulated, mountainous wilderness, difficult to regulate, which made it attractive to werewolves seeking a less restrictive lifestyle, and led to even more cases of lycanthropy springing up in those areas. Fenton's mother's family had come from Albania, and Fenton knew some of the language, so it seemed like a good place to start. 

Disembarking the train at King's Cross station, he spent a few days making plans and buying supplies, including a guidebook from Flourish and Blotts, and a few useful items from Knockturn Alley. 

On the night of the June full moon -- an auspicious date on which to officially begin his journey, Fenton decided -- he boarded a ship from Dover to Calais, carrying only a small pack. From Calais, a series of trains took him east and south through France, West Germany, Austria, Yugoslavia, and finally down into Albania, on the coast of the Adriatic Sea. The rail journey took the better part of a week. There were no direct routes, and one or two nights were spent wrapped in his travelling cloak on the platform of a deserted rail station, awaiting a connecting train that would not come until the morning. 

At last, he arrived in Shkodra, perched between the mountains and a large lake, the only city of any size in northern Albania. That was not saying much. It was bigger than Hogsmeade, certainly, but Fenton thought it a stretch to call it a city. Still, the town was reputed to be home to one of the oldest Wizarding communities in that part of Europe. 

The pub the guidebook directed him to resembled the Leaky Cauldron. It was smaller, but just as dingy, and smelled of beer and hot food. Fenton was glad to sit down and take a meal. While the bartender fetched his food, he decided to try his luck asking the middle-aged witch sitting down the bar from him. The word had not been in his guidebook, nor was it among the ones his mother had taught him as a child. He said it carefully, to be sure he was getting it right, "... _luqerbulla_?" 

The witch's eyes widened, and she turned away, sliding further down the bar. She had smiled when he began to speak to her in slow, broken Albanian. Now she cast him quick, suspicious glances and whispered to her neighbour on the other side, who did the same. He scowled at her, and went back to drinking his beer. _We're better than them,_ he thought moodily as the bartender set his meal in front of him. Two more patrons reacted exactly like the first woman, before the bartender overheard what he was asking, and told him to pay for his meal and his beer and get out. 

Fenton threw the money on the bar and sneered at the man. "I'll be back," he told him. "Next time I won't be so polite. You'll wish you'd answered my questions then." 

It was obvious that _Where can I find werewolves?_ was the wrong question to ask. He would have to try a different tactic. 

The only other establishment in town that the guidebook recommended was a mostly-Muggle pub run by a wizard and his Muggle wife. There, Fenton ordered a beer and sat quietly at the bar for a while, listening to the conversation of the patrons. He could understand some of it, and some words were easy to figure out from context, especially the sounds of oft-repeated vulgarities, sometimes accompanied by hand gestures, for emphasis. Fenton grinned. If he spent his time there roaming Albanian pubs, he was likely to pick up quite a colourful vocabulary. 

After a time, a man with a bald head and a heavy jaw invited him into conversation with his companions. He slapped Fenton on the shoulder, laughing, and bought him a drink, asking where he was from, what he had seen so far on his travels, and why he had come to Albania. 

Fenton laughed along with the men. "My mother told me stories about werewolves," he said, smiling as if he thought it were a great joke. "I came to see if it was true." 

A few grins faded as he spoke, but the bald man threw his head back and guffawed. "They do like to tell stories," he said, and began to tell one. It sounded like a tall tale to Fenton, but he listened as patiently as he could manage, in case there was any hint that would lead him further on his quest. 

When the bald man finished, a man with a wool coat and a red face told a story about wolves that he had heard as a child. Disappointingly, his wolves were the mundane sort, and not the sort that only came out by the light of the moon. Though Fenton tried asking a few leading questions, he could not make the conversation go the way he wanted, and finally gave up, giving the men gruff thanks for the beer they had bought him, and bidding them good night. 

On the edge of town, he left the road for the shelter of the trees. Curling up in his traveling cloak, head pillowed on his pack, he listened to the night wind. All he heard was the rush of the leaves overhead, and somewhere nearby, the sound of running water. No one would be howling at the moon tonight; it was only just at third quarter, caught halfway between full and new. 

He hoped he would have better luck tomorrow. Shkodra had been his best bet. Beyond the town, tiny villages littered the countryside, and the guidebook had few helpful suggestions. He would just have to be lucky.


	2. Chapter 2

As it happened, luck was on Fenton's side. He did not learn anything useful the next day, but the day after that, when he stopped for supper and began once more encouraging the locals to tell tales of werewolves, he noticed a figure sitting in the corner, watching him. The man did not take part in the storytelling. He wore a long cloak, like Fenton's own, but with a deep hood which hid his features. So close to the mountains, it was chilly in the evening all year round, so the man's dress did not look terribly out of place. However, the style did mark him as different from the other patrons. Fenton was almost certain he was a wizard. 

Sure enough, when the family he had been sharing stories with moved on, the man came to sit beside him. 

"Is it only tales of wolves you're looking for?" he asked in English. 

Fenton peered at him through the dim, smoky light of the pub. The man did not look at him, but gazed disinterestedly across the room, as if he were only passing the time in small talk. His features beneath the hood were oddly waxen. His profile might have been handsome, but there was something in the way he moved and spoke that gave Fenton a chill, and made him wonder if his new companion was quite human. 

"I'm not just looking for stories," he said. 

The man glanced at him. A smile flickered over his pale lips. Fenton thought for a moment that his eyes were red. "You seek dangerous prey." 

"Not dangerous this week, are they?" Fenton smirked, summoning up his bravado. 

"Perhaps not," the stranger allowed. "Have you ever met one?" 

"My grandfather," he informed the man. "Have _you_ ever met one?" 

The man's laugh was cold, and stretched his mouth in a way the looked almost painful. "I have met several. I spoke to one only yesterday." 

"Where?" Fenton demanded, looking around. "Is he here?" 

"Not here," said the man, "but he is staying nearby." 

"Take me to him." Fenton glared pugnaciously at the stranger. What if the man was only mocking him? If he was, Fenton would give him a beating he was unlikely ever to forget. The man was tall, and looked older by several years, but Fenton was broader through the chest and shoulders, and making people apologise to him after he broke their noses was one of his hobbies. 

"Perhaps I will," said the man, still gazing across the room, as if it were of no concern to him. 

"If it's money you want, I don't have any," Fenton warned him. 

The stranger laughed his cold laugh again. "I don't want your money, boy." 

"Then what do you want?" 

"Give me your hand." 

That startled him. He was about to refuse, to tell the stranger to fuck off. But then the man looked at him. His eyes _were_ red. They burned right through him, out of a handsome, inhuman face. Fenton gave the man his hand. 

There was a sharp, dragging, prodding pain in his head, as if someone were sorting through his brains with long, pointed fingernails. He could not look away or withdraw his hand from the stranger's cold grasp. He could not even move. 

At last, the man released him. He smiled at Fenton, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I will introduce you to the werewolf. In exchange, you will do me a favour." 

"What sort of favour?" Fenton rubbed his hand against his pant leg. It felt icy cold. 

"I do not know yet," said the man. "Someday, I will, and then I will find you. It may be months or even years from now, but I will find you, and you will do what I ask." 

"And if I don't?" Fenton asked warily. 

The stranger gave him that cold smile again. "I know you, Fenton Gray. I've seen into your mind. I know what manner of man you are. You will enjoy the work I have for you." 

Fenton shivered. He had not told the man his name. "All right," he said. Perhaps it was only a trick, and the man was just an eccentric who enjoyed spooking kids. "Take me to him." 

They walked in silence down the road leading out of the village. The setting sun was a faint glow on the western horizon, but the half moon was high in the sky, and lit their way. The hooded stranger walked in front, with Fenton a few steps behind. The man did not ask for conversation, and Fenton did not give it. His mind was full of his plans now, which seemed closer than ever before. He had no desire to share those plans with the stranger. He had a feeling the man already knew. 

When they were far enough from the village that they could be certain of not being observed, Fenton reluctantly took the stranger's arm. The man Apparated them to a clearing in the forest, in which stood a small cottage. Fenton's guide went to the door and knocked. At first there was silence, then grumbling and rustling, and finally an uneven _tap tap tap_ of footsteps, and the door opened an inch. 

"You again? What do you want now?" asked a gruff, heavily accented voice. 

The stranger made a small bow. "I met this boy on the road. He is seeking your kind." 

"Boy?" the voice growled. 

The door opened a few more inches. The man behind it was short and broad, and at least sixty. His face was scarred and he was missing an ear. Leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick, he sniffed at Fenton. 

"You are not one of us. Why have you come?" 

"My grandfather was _luqerbulla_ ," said Fenton. 

The man scowled. "Well, I did not turn him. I have never turned anyone." 

"I'm sure the one who turned him is long dead, as is my grandfather," Fenton told him. "I only want to talk to you. May I come in?" 

"Both of you?" the man asked. 

"Only the boy," said the cloaked stranger. "I must be on my way." 

He turned to Fenton, who profoundly hoped he was not about to offer him his hand in farewell. 

The stranger only bowed his head, saying, "One day we shall meet again, Fenton Gray." Then he was gone. 

"Who was that?" Fenton asked, staring at the empty air where the stranger had stood. 

The man at the door grunted. "Never got his name. Come in, if you are coming." 

The inside of the sparsely-furnished cottage was lit by the stump of a candle, melted into the heavy, scarred wood of a table. There were two chairs, a wood stove with a kettle and pot for cooking, a mattress covered by a rough blanket, a sturdy wooden chest, and a long counter littered with potion ingredients. A haunch of venison hung from the rafters, and bolted into the wall and floor in one corner were a set of heavy iron shackles. Deep gouges scarred the wood around the bolts. They looked fresh. Fenton frowned. 

"I told you. I never turned anyone," grunted the man. He filled the kettle from a pitcher and set it on top of the wood stove, muttering a spell to stoke up the fire. 

"The man in the cloak said you were staying here," said Fenton. "Are you not from around here?" 

"I am Italian. I also speak English," he added, switching languages. "Would this be easier for you?" 

Fenton nodded. 

"I am called Cesare." 

"Fenton." 

"You have not said what you want, Fenton." 

"I want to know," said Fenton, leaning forwards eagerly. "About your life. What you can tell me. Things I can't read in books." 

Cesare waved a hand at the cottage. Fenton noticed the hand was missing two fingers. "You see my life. I have nothing. No family. No friends. A few months in this place, a few months in that place. No one wants the _licantropi_ near them very long. Even foolish young boys know better than getting close." 

"People are fools," Fenton shrugged. "My grandfather wasn't a monster. My parents didn't try to keep me away from him. He called me 'pup' and 'cub'. He said I was his pack." 

"Then your grandfather was fortunate," said Cesare. He seemed to enjoy having someone to talk to, now that his suspicion had worn off. "To have such a family is not always the way for the _licantropi_." 

"Have you known many others like you?" 

"A few." The kettle was steaming, and Cesare busied himself making tea. "There are not so many of us in Italy now, but when I was young, I lived in the piedmont, near mountains much like these. There are still some there. That is where I met the one that turned me." 

Fenton nodded. "I don't know if there are any left now in Britain either. That's why I decided to come here. How old were you when you were turned?" 

"Twenty-eight years," said Cesare bitterly. "I am an old man now. That animal took my life." 

"But aren't you stronger than you were? More powerful?" Fenton asked, frowning. 

"In some ways," Cesare admitted. "I can fight a man half my age and win. I can withstand great pain. I heal quickly. I am rarely ill. At times, I can wield powerful magic. In other ways, I am not strong. My body is at war with itself, and I am losing. Tell me, how did your grandfather die?" 

"A heart attack," Fenton admitted. "During the full moon." 

"And how old was he when this happened?" 

"Sixty-four." 

Cesare nodded. "Young for a wizard, but not unusual. I, too, will die soon. I have been _un licantropo_ for more than thirty years. Many do not survive so long." 

Fenton sipped his tea and did not argue. He had learned as much from his reading, and had sent away to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for the statistics, claiming a school project. Werewolves lived shorter lives on average than most wizards or Muggles. The two most common causes of death were organ failure during transformation and suicide. 

"So. I come to this place," Cesare continued. "I look for others like me. A pack. They will take me in, and I will not die alone." 

"Why not make your own pack?" Fenton asked. "Thirty years. You could have built an empire in that time." 

Anger flashed in Cesare's eyes. "You are a boy who knows nothing. Many do not survive the _morsicatura_ \-- the bite. You wish their blood on my hands? If they live -- I do not wish this life on an enemy. I have lost all. Once I had a wife. She tried to stay, but it was very hard for her. I have not seen her for many years. My father and mother, they were good people. They did not send me away. The town they lived in from childhood turned away from them, and they died of shame and heartbreak." 

Fenton was unmoved. "Like I said, people are fools. You never did anything to them, and they turned their backs on you." 

"I could have." 

"But you didn't. They would have deserved it if you had." 

"No." Cesare's fist came down with a thump on the solid wood of the table. "No person deserves such a thing." 

"All right," said Fenton mildly, though he disagreed. In his opinion, anyone who did not want such power was a coward or a fool, no matter what the cost, and those who hoarded it all to themselves, treating it as a shameful secret, were little better. "So have you managed to find a pack?" 

"No," said Cesare again, quieter this time. 

"I was told Central and Eastern Europe were positively crawling with werewolves. Are you saying there are no others around here?" 

Cesare grunted. "Europe is a big place. There may be many. They do not make themselves easy to find. There are others here that I have seen, but no pack." 

"Still, if there are others nearby, why aren't you with them?" Fenton took a distracted sip of his tea and realised it had gone cold in the cup. 

"Many do not trust even others of their own kind." Cesare shook his head. "The nearest is at a farm in the hills above Qerret, ten miles away. A girl. Jehona, she is called. Her family still watch over her. They do not like me to speak to her, but she is different. She comes sometimes to visit me. She will come tomorrow, or perhaps the day after." 

"A girl?" Fenton sat up straighter in his seat. From what he had read, most werewolves were adults. Children rarely survived the initial attack. In his head, he began to revise his plans. "What's she like?" 

"She is young," said Cesare. "Like you. Eighteen years. A hard worker with a good heart." 

"Is she pretty?" asked Fenton, trying to hide the slight disappointment he felt. Younger would have been better. Twelve or thirteen would have been ideal. 

Cesare frowned. "She is scarred. Like me. We are all scarred." 

Fenton shrugged, giving the man an easy smile. "That doesn't trouble me." 

"It should." Cesare's frown deepened. "You will give that girl no trouble." 

"Why?" Fenton's smile did not waver. "It's no concern of yours. She visits you. She can visit me, too." 

"It is not like that between us," Cesare snapped. "Jehona is a good girl. I do not think your intentions towards her are good." 

"I'll leave her alone," Fenton lied, "if you'll do something for me." 

The look of suspicion had returned to Cesare's face. "What?" 

"Turn me. If you do, I won't go near the girl when she comes. And I'll stay here. As long as you live. You won't be alone." 

Slowly, the old man rose to his feet. "Leave this place." His voice shook with quiet fury. "Do not let me see you again. Tomorrow, I will go to Qerret. If I find you there or on the road, I will become very angry." 

Fenton got up from his chair, still smiling. He fingered the wand in his pocket. Cesare's wand lay on the counter beside the tea tin. _Careless, that._

"I'll go in a moment," he promised, "and you won't see me again."


	3. Chapter 3

The midsummer sunlight filtered through the trees as Jehona, humming to herself, made her way along the uneven path from Qerret. Once the morning chill had passed, and the day had grown warm, she had removed her red wool cloak, stowing it in the basket with the loaf of bread and jar of jam she was taking to Cesare. It was a long walk, but not, at this time of year, a difficult one, in spite of the slight lameness in her left leg. 

It would be good to see Cesare. Since the terrible thing that had happened four years before, she had not had any friends in the village. People avoided her, and whispered things to each other when they saw her. She was lonely with only her parents and younger sister for company. Cesare might be an old man, but he understood about loneliness, and he was kind, so she visited him twice a month, against her parents' worried wishes. 

She had just passed the large boulder which marked the halfway point, when she heard someone call her name. 

"Jehona." 

Her head jerked up, scenting the air. She smelled him before she saw him -- her eyesight had never been particularly keen -- young, male, unfamiliar. He was sitting on a fallen log a little off the path, the brown of his shirt and trousers blending with the colours of the forest. The youth looked near her own age, big, with shaggy brown hair. He smiled at her, showing his teeth. 

Jehona backed up a step. "Who are you?" There was a fist-sized rock in her basket, if necessary, and her aim was not bad. She also had her walking stick. 

"A friend. A friend's friend." His accent was odd, and he spoke slowly, as if he had to think about each word before saying it. "I am called Fenton. I come here to find you. You are a friend of Cesare." 

She nodded. 

"He told me of you. I am sorry to say you this message. Cesare is dead." 

"Oh!" cried Jehona, shocked. It could not be true. Her friend was not young, but he had seemed strong when she saw him only two weeks before. 

The young man stood and approached her. "I am sorry," he said again. "I was with him when he died. He sends me to tell you." 

Jehona hung her head as tears sprang to her eyes. "Cesare," she whispered. 

"Come, sit," said the boy, taking her arm and leading her, unresisting, back to the fallen log. 

She sat staring at the pattern of scars crisscrossing the backs of her hands for a long moment, feeling numb. 

"Thank you," she said at last. "Thank you for coming to tell me." 

The boy put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "He was a good man. He like you very much." 

"Yes." A tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away. "How -- how did he die?" 

"An accident. He misjudged the blow of an axe." 

"Oh, how terrible! And you were there?" 

Fenton nodded. "I could not help him." 

A sob escaped her chest. She felt as if her heart would break. Her only friend in the world was dead, and the only comfort she had was that he had not died alone. The boy held her as she wept, stroking her hair and her back, murmuring words in a foreign tongue. _Stupid wolf bitch. The things I will do to you. Can't you smell his blood on me?_

At last, her tears subsided. 

"I will walk to your home with you," said Fenton. 

She thanked him, still sniffling and wiping her eyes on the edge of her cloak. 

As they walked, she asked him questions about himself to distract her from her sorrow. Where did he come from? How long had he been in Albania? How did he know Cesare? Fenton was English, though his mother's family had come from Albania. He was sixteen. He had finished school recently and had decided to travel and see a bit of the world. Cesare was a friend, chance met on the road, who had offered Fenton a place to stay for a few days. 

Jehona thought it sounded like an exciting adventure. She had always wanted to visit strange places, especially famous cities like Paris, Istanbul, and Rome, but travel was expensive, and her condition made it difficult to stay away from home for very long. She asked if he had ever been to London, and spent the rest of the walk listening, enthralled, as he described the sights of the city. 

In spite of the slow pace enforced by Jehona's limp, the journey seemed to pass quickly. Before long, they were in sight of her parents' farmhouse. 

"I'm sorry I can't invite you in," she said regretfully. "My parents will not be pleased that I spoke to a stranger." 

"They do not like you talk to men?" he asked with a knowing smile. 

That was not exactly the case; Jehona's parents were suspicious of all strangers since the attack, but she could not explain the reason for their worries to this kind young man, so she nodded. 

"They will not know I am here," he promised. 

She gave him a shy smile. "Will you be staying nearby for long?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I should like to see you again." She blushed. 

His smile widened. "You will." 

* * *

She saw him nearly every day for the next two weeks. The weather was fine, though the nights could be chilly so close to the mountains, and he slept in the forest near the farm, wrapped in his cloak. She showed him which wood was best for hot, slow-burning fires, and where to find water, taught him new words in her language, and brought him food and an old blanket she thought her parents would not miss. In spite of her sadness over Cesare's death, Jehona was the happiest she could remember being in more than four years. 

Fenton was not handsome, but there was something about him which drew her, all the same. She liked his accent, his large hands, his easy smile. He smiled at her often, as if she were pretty, as if he could not see her scars. Sometimes, there was an intensity about him that disquieted her, but it thrilled her at the same time. _I am a much scarier thing than he is,_ she reminded herself. After so many years of quiet and boredom and loneliness, Jehona was hungry for the attention he paid her. 

On the third day, she let him kiss her. It was nothing like the shy peck a boy from the village had given her at thirteen. It was wet and rough and felt very grown up. Jehona liked it. She let him do it again. When he tried to touch her, trailing his fingers over her small breasts, or sliding a hand up her thigh, she would laugh and push his hands away. This did not seem to trouble him. He would smile and wait and try again later. 

In her room at night, after her sister had gone to sleep, Jehona remembered those touches, reenacting them with her own hands. "I met a boy in the forest," she whispered into the darkness. It was like something out of a fairy tale. If only he were a prince, come to rescue the poor girl from her enchantment. 

As the moon began to wax once more, Jehona grew sad. She would have to make him leave soon. If he stayed, he was sure to learn her secret, and then he would be afraid, and hate her like everyone else did. She could not bear the thought of that. Better that they should part bittersweetly. She would treasure the memory of him for the rest of her life. 

The waxing moon caused other problems as well. Jehona was used to the disturbing dreams, the wild thoughts that crowded her waking mind, the urges that swept through her body like the rising tide, as the moon grew fat in the sky. Before now, all she could do was seek out what privacy she could to take care of her body's needs on her own. But now, there was another option, if she wanted it. 

Part of her did want it, but it was not a part of herself that she liked or trusted. It was the part that was responsible for her family's shame and isolation. Even so, the next afternoon, as they lay on their spread cloaks, kissing in the green-filtred sunlight, when Fenton put a hand on her breast, she did not push him away. He gave her a searching look, which she returned, scared but defiant. He smiled and squeezed her breast, kissing her some more, and letting his hands wander freely over her body. It was only when he rolled on top of her, grinding the hardness of his groin between her legs, that she stopped him. _Too much! Too fast!_

"You do not like it?" Fenton asked. His Albanian was improving, but he still spoke in a stilted manner. 

Jehona had no answer for that. She looked away, tears welling in her eyes. "You must go. My parents suspect something." 

It was not true. Jehona's father was ill, and slept much of the time. Her mother was frequently away at this time of year, buying and selling livestock in nearby villages. It was left to Jehona and her sister to see to the farm and care for their father. Jehona always finished her chores more quickly than Lule did, and often helped her younger sister complete her own tasks. No one thought it odd that she often went walking in the forest. 

Fenton turned her face back towards him. "Do you want me to go?" 

"You must," she repeated, but she could not hide the tears. 

"Three days more," he said. "Three days with my lovely Jehona, then I go." 

Jehona nodded, the tears spilling over. The third day would be the eve of the full moon. Three more days was as much as she could hope for with him, whether he stayed or went. His arms were strong and comforting around her as he murmured endearments in English. _Three more days, wolf bitch. Then you're mine._


	4. Chapter 4

She spent as much as she dared of their last full day together in the forest with Fenton. He would set out the following morning, and she would prepare for her monthly ordeal. The oncoming moon and the shortness of their time together combined to make her bold. She let him unbutton her blouse, kiss her bare breasts, and put a hand under her skirt, but only as far as her thigh. Her monthly bleeding was on her -- it always came on just before the full moon -- and she was shy of letting him know about it. For her part, she put her hand between his legs, feeling with wonder the shape and hardness of him through the fabric. He asked her to put her hand inside his trousers, but she refused, afraid that if she went that far, she would not want to stop. 

As the light began to fade towards evening, Jehona regretfully bade him farewell. She needed to be home for supper, to make sure her father and sister were properly fed. Her mother was away again, and would not be home until the following afternoon. 

"Come to me tonight," Fenton insisted. "I want to say you farewell properly." 

"Maybe," was all she would promise. 

She barely tasted her supper, though she ate as if she were starving, as she always did at these times. Her thoughts were full of Fenton. Her father and Lule did not ask her if anything was wrong. They knew. Or thought they did. Jehona was often moody and preoccupied before the full moon. After supper, she cleared away the food and did the washing up quickly, putting the house in order for the night, before going to bed, claiming a headache. 

She lay in the dimness, curtains drawn against the late-evening summer sunlight, trying to ignore the clenching ache in her womb, and wishing hard for her family to go to sleep. It seemed like forever before Lule came in and changed into her nightdress, wishing Jehona good night, and longer still before the girl's breathing fell into the cadence of sleep. 

Only then did Jehona dare to push the covers down, and pull her own nightdress up, sliding a hand inside her underwear. She was slick with blood and desire where she touched herself, and she closed her eyes, imagining Fenton's big hands touching her there. Her heart pounded with excitement as she remembered the feel of his erection in her hand, separated from her only by thin layers of cloth. She tried to imagine what it would look like, what it would feel like, as she slipped two fingers inside herself. 

Would it be such a bad thing if she let him do it? Her parents had told her she must not, and she knew it was only the moon's influence that made her want it so badly. That alone should be enough to make her want to resist. There was no reason to save her virginity for marriage as many girls did; who would want to marry someone like her? She had no wish to be thought wanton, but people already thought much worse things of her, and was it really so sinful to lie with a boy she thought she might love, even if she would never see him again? 

She knew enough about where babies came from to believe the myth that if they stopped before he spilled his seed inside her, she would not become pregnant. She did not even know if her kind were able to carry a child. But if she could -- _I could have his baby here with me, after he's gone. We would be part of each other forever._ It would be worth the shame of unwed motherhood, she thought, and might make losing him easier to bear. 

Jehona knew these thoughts were foolish. Her mother could not afford another mouth to feed, and the shame of it might kill her already-frail father. But she still wanted to see him. If she did not go to him tonight, they might have time for only a few kisses in the morning before he left. If she went to him now, she could sleep in his arms -- one last sweet memory of their time together. She would just have to rid herself of the temptation to do more than sleep. 

Feverishly, she moved her fingers in and out of herself, imagining again that hard thickness in her hand, what it would feel like inside her, filling her. "Fenton," she whispered, "Fenton," as she brushed her thumb across the pleasurable nub. She bit down on her lip to keep silent as her climax broke over her. 

For a moment, she lay, panting, and then she was out of her bed, into the kitchen to wash herself, and through the door, grabbing her red cloak from its peg on the way. 

The farmyard was flooded with moonlight. The shining silver disk, a hair from full, drew her eyes, as it always did, and she stood, transfixed, staring into the night sky. 

"Jehona," called a soft, rough voice. 

Her eyes fell to the tree line. The moon caught the glint of his teeth, but otherwise, he was nearly invisible. His dark clothing blended with the shadows. She ran to him, bare feet silent on the packed earth, and then she was in his arms. Her last chance to be with her English boy. He took her hand, leading her into the forest. 

They came to a clearing, and he tumbled her onto a bed of leaves in a bright patch of moonlight. She looked up into the face of the moon over his shoulder as he lay on top of her, hands moving over her body. He rubbed his hardness against her, and she could not help arching up into him. Her own release had done little but whet her appetite. She wanted him, in an exciting, dangerous way. 

_It is not me that wants it,_ she reminded herself. _It is the animal. It does not control me._

"I must have you before I go," he told her, fingers catching at her nightdress. 

"No," she said. "We mustn't. Just kiss me, Fenton, and then we can sleep here, together." 

He drew back and looked down at her, frowning. "I am tired of this girl's game. I know you want it. Your kind always does before the full moon." 

She gasped. He knew. How could he know? Had someone in the village told him? She tried to push him away, but he was heavy on top of her. 

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she cried, suddenly terrified. 

"You do," he said, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the ground. He was angry now. "You are _luqerbulla_ , and you waste it. You try to be like them. You let it make you less when you could be more." 

"I am not an animal," she hissed, defiant through her tears. 

"Stupid bitch," he said coldly. "An animal is the only thing worth being." 

He let go of one of her wrists and hooked his fingers into the neck of her nightdress, yanking downwards. The thin cotton fabric tore, his nails scoring long scratches across her breasts and belly. 

She tried to cover herself with her free hand. " _No!_ I don't want to!" 

He knocked her hand aside impatiently. "Why should it matter what you want? It has always been about what _they_ want for you. Now it is about what _I_ want." 

He really meant to do it. Fear and desperation lent her strength. She was small, but strong for her size. Her free hand shoved hard at his chest as she twisted her body sideways, forcing him to roll onto his side. Jehona struggled to her knees and into a staggering run. 

Her beautiful forest was a nightmare of shadows and flashes of silver light. She did not know which was the way back to her house. She could smell the farm -- goats, pigs, chickens -- but was too disoriented and frightened to tell which direction it came from. And she could smell him -- the scent of a predator, hungry, hunting her through the darkness. She had never thought of herself as prey before, but now all she could do was run away, barefoot, limping. The rustle of his footsteps in the leaves told her he was walking quickly, not running. His clothes blended with the shadows, while her white gown shone like a beacon in the moonlight, her red cloak lost somewhere behind. She skirted around the bole of a large tree and stood with her back against it, trying to quiet her sobbing breaths. 

"You can't hide from me," he called out to her. "If you try, you will not like what happens." 

His footsteps had stopped, but he was near. 

"I saw your sister today," he went on conversationally. "Chasing chickens. Collecting eggs. Pretty girl. How old is she? Ten? If you hide from me, I will go to your house and pay her a visit instead. Would you like that better?" 

Jehona squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing a sob. _Lule._ She pushed away from the tree and ran. She thought now she knew which direction to go. If she could make it back to the house, she might be safe. Her parents owned an old hunting rifle. She knew where it was, and her father had taught her how to fire it when she was younger. She could make him go away. 

Heavy footfalls crashed through the underbrush behind her. He was gaining. She thought she could see the peak of the farmhouse roof through a break in the trees, and forced herself to run faster. 

Her foot caught on a root and she stumbled, crashing to the ground with a startled cry, her bad leg twisting painfully under her. 

He was on her in seconds. There was a slender stick in his hand, which he pointed at her, saying a word. Black cords whipped around her wrists, binding them tightly together. She did not understand how he had done it. It seemed like magic. 

"Please don't do this," she begged, tearful, mourning for the boy she had thought he was, afraid of the monster he had become. 

He ignored her, grabbing her by the ankles and yanking her towards him, his hands crawling up her legs like spiders as he muttered words she was glad she could not understand. 

_Ugly bitch. Waste of a wolf. Waste of skin. Guarding your worthless cunt like it's made of gold, when all it's good for is being fucked._

He pushed her nightdress up around her waist, exposing the thick silver scar of the wolf's bite on her thigh. Gripping her knees and forcing them apart, he bent his head and ran his tongue over the nerveless flesh. 

_This should have been the source of your power, bitch. Instead, you treat it like something shameful._

"Stop! Please, Fenton, stop." She tried to scoot away, and he slapped her. 

Pinning her down with his body, he forced her bound hands over her head, hooking them around the broken tree root she had tripped over. His other hand still held the stick. He pointed it at her underwear, and said another word. They vanished. Tossing the stick aside, he plunged two thick fingers inside her. She screamed. He seemed to like that. 

"The bitch says 'no', but her cunt is soaking wet. Which am I to believe?" he asked, amused. Withdrawing his fingers, he saw the blood on them. "Filthy slut," he sneered, wrinkling his nose in disgust and wiping them on her torn gown. 

His hand went to the fly of his trousers, tugging them open and shoving them down over his hips. She could see his erection, standing out hard and dark against the pale skin of her thighs. Something inside her throbbed with need at the sight of him, and she felt ill. She did not want this -- hated him with every ounce of her being -- his touch sickened her -- and yet the beast that prowled just below the surface yearned for what he was about to do to her. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She wanted to die. 

"No," she said as he settled himself onto her. "No," she said as the blunt, thick head opened her, pushing inside. "No," she said as he began to move, grunting, driving into her over and over again. _No no no no nononono!_ she shouted inside her head as she felt with horror the familiar pressure building inside, as her hips began to move with his, against her will. " _NO!_ " she screamed as climax shuddered through her treacherous body and she bucked under him. 

He made a sound of satisfaction. His hips jerked, and she felt him spill his seed deep inside her. She lay silent, teeth clenched, staring up at the moon shining between the leaves, tears dripping into her ears. 

After a moment, he pulled out of her and wiped himself on a handful of her ruined nightdress. 

"I knew you wanted it," he said smugly. "Lying slut. Pretending to be a virgin all this time. Was it Cesare who had you first, or your father? Or did you open your legs for some worthless peasant boy?" 

"I'll tell my parents," she whispered, voice breaking. 

"No, you won't." He dipped a finger inside her again and brought it to her lips, inscribing a strange letter there in her own blood. "You won't tell them anything." 

* * *

She did not want to leave her room. She did not want to leave her bed. She certainly did not want to leave the house. Not when she knew that Fenton was out there in the forest, watching, waiting for her. But if she did not go out to care for the animals, Lule would have to do it, and more than anything else, Jehona did not want Fenton anywhere near her sister. Their mother would not be back until the afternoon. She would have to do it. 

Jehona found the rifle, and made sure it was loaded and ready, setting it near the front door. She forbade Lule to leave the house, saying there were wild animals about, and that a neighbour had lost a goat. Then she put a knife in her pocket, took a deep breath, and, heart pounding, stepped out into the farmyard. 

She smelled him before she saw him -- smelled herself on him, and thought she might vomit -- and when she looked up from feeding the pigs, he was there, leaning on the fence, grinning at her. 

"Good morning, slut," he said conversationally. 

She touched her pocket, feeling the weight of the knife. "Go away," she said, defiant. The wolf was rising, and there was only so much room left in her for fear. 

His smile only widened. "You wanted it. You know you did. Your cunt was begging to be fucked. You are probably wet right now." 

She gave him a look of disgust, circling around the pigpen to keep as much distance between them as possible. It was not much. "Maybe _she_ wanted it. The wolf. I want nothing of you." 

He followed her to the gate and grabbed her arm as she tried to dodge past him. She spat in his face, and he struck her hard across the cheek, pinning her to the wall of the henhouse and pushing up her skirt. 

_No, not again,_ the voice inside her growled. Her free hand plunged into her pocket, drawing the knife. She moved quickly, but he jerked back, the blade only scoring a shallow cut down the side of his neck before he grabbed her wrist. He squeezed hard. Something cracked, and she cried out in pain, dropping the knife. 

"Is that the best you can do, wolf bitch?" he asked, still grinning. 

He twisted her wrist, kicking her bad leg out from under her. She fell to the ground, and he pushed her, face first, into the dirt. Her skirts were up, and she felt the air on her bare skin. There was a brief moment's fumbling and then he was in her. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping he would finish quickly. If she cried out, her father -- or worse, her sister -- might come out to see what the trouble was. 

"This is too easy," complained Fenton. 

He jerked out of her, and then she felt his erection pressing against her other hole. She bit her tongue, tasting blood, as he shoved into her. She could bear the burning pain of it, but his grunts of enjoyment sickened her and filled her with shame. 

It seemed like an eternity before he was finished. As soon as he released her, Jehona rolled away from him, covering herself, but she was trembling too badly to stand. She sat in the dirt, glaring up at him, angry tears burning on her cheeks. 

"I think you were a virgin that way, at least," he said as he buttoned his fly. He seemed pleased. "We will do this again soon."


	5. Chapter 5

It had not taken Fenton long to find the right place. He had gone into the farmhouse one night, just to check, while Jehona and her family slept, and he knew there was no suitable space there, nor in any of the farm's outbuildings. All were made of wood, and while they were sturdy enough in their way, none of them could have contained a transformed lycanthrope, not even a scrawny female one, for more than a single full moon. No, they would have to keep her somewhere in the forest, near the house, but as far away from the village as possible. 

He knew it at once when he saw it. The pit was deep and broad, its sides almost perpendicular to the earthen floor, which was pounded flat and hard by dozens of nights of pacing paws. No roots protruded from the sides of the pit; all have been carefully shorn or torn away to prevent the beast from catching hold and climbing out. A tall wooden ladder lay off to one side, almost concealed by fallen leaves and wildflowers. 

On the evening before moonrise, Fenton washed himself in a chilly mountain stream. It was not only that he did not want her to be able to sense his presence too soon; cleansing and purification were a part of every ritual Fenton had read about. Other factors were said to add power to the ritual as well. Blood. Fire. Certain words or runes. A virgin sacrifice would have been best of all. 

He doubted Jehona had been a virgin. All the virgins Fenton had ever known had been dry and tight, and had bled the first time. She had wept and screamed just as they had, but her cunt had been slippery wet, swallowing him greedily, and he had felt her climax. 

_Slut,_ he thought, irritated. Why could women not keep their legs together? Was it really so difficult? 

But there was no help for it. Young female werewolves were rare, and he did not want to waste time hunting down another one. She would do. 

He had been disappointed, at first, that she was older than him. Eighteen was aging out of the range Fenton usually enjoyed, but she was small and slim, with narrow hips and negligible breasts, making it easy for him to imagine her no more than thirteen. She had not been pretty, scarred and lame as she was, but it had been an entertaining game to pass the time until the moon waxed full, seeing what it would take to make the prey offer its throat willingly to the predator. 

After washing, he rolled up his clothes and stowed them in his pack between the roots of a large tree. He removed an object from the pack, then went to a place downwind of the pit, with a view of the trail, and sat down to wait. 

They came down the path as the evening light grew dim beneath the trees. Mother and daughter. The mother looked grim. The girl walked with her head down, her limp more exaggerated than usual, arm held awkwardly. Fenton supposed he had broken one of the bones of her wrist. She had not told her mother what had happened, and perhaps could do no more than give a vague warning about dangers in the forest. The Silencing rune he had placed on her lips had been enhanced by the use of blood. It was not permanent, but should be effective for several days at least. Not that Fenton required her to keep her silence for that long. 

At the edge of the pit, the mother let down the ladder while Jehona undressed. Moving slowly and quietly, Fenton let a hand fall to his lap, and began to stroke himself, eyes running over the girl's slender body. Even from where he sat, he could see the dark spots of bruises on her skin. The mother said something, touching one of the marks, but the girl only shook her head, unable and perhaps unwilling to voice an explanation. 

Before climbing down the ladder into the pit, Jehona embraced her mother. The woman kissed her daughter on the forehead and stepped away. She carefully folded the girl's clothing and put it into a bag, which she left, along with a folded blanket, near the edge of the pit, before drawing up the ladder once more. With a word of farewell, she turned and walked back the way she had come. 

Fenton waited until she was out of sight before approaching the pit. 

"Hello again, slut," he called down to her. 

She did not seem surprised to see him, nor did she make any attempt to cover her nakedness, but glared up at him with hatred burning in her eyes. 

_The wolf knows no shame nor modesty,_ he thought with approval. 

"What do you want now?" 

"I thought you might want the company of a friend, all alone down there, waiting for the moon to rise." 

"You are no friend to me," she spat back at him. "Come down here soon, and I will tear your throat out." 

"I'll come down now, if you want me," he teased, stroking his naked cock. He was hard with the excitement of the moment. _Three is a number of power,_ he thought. _It should be three times, taking her power for myself._ But there was no time for that now. 

His belly clenched in anticipation. The time was almost at hand, after so many years of planning and dreaming. He raised the axe and drew the blade across his fingers. The axe head was pure silver. He had bought it in Knockturn Alley, inscribing the runes on it himself -- runes for Power, Blood, and Taking -- and had spent hours honing the blade. Blood welled from his cut fingers. In the pit, Jehona's head jerked up, scenting the blood, as Fenton carefully drew the rune for Protection on his chest. 

"Why are you here?" she asked. She was pacing back and forth now, never taking her eyes off him, her speech slow and slurred. The moon would rise in a moment. 

"Because he promised me," said Fenton. "My grandfather. If he had lived long enough, he would have turned me himself, and I would not have needed to seek out a wolf bitch to do it for me." 

_One day, you will be like me, Fen. Powerful. Special._

"You don't want this," she told him between gritted teeth. "It is pain. It is fear. It is your people turning their backs on you." 

Fenton laughed and shook his head. "The power you have is wasted on the likes of you and that fool, Cesare. I will embrace it. I will use it. Men will tremble at the sound of my name." 

"Where is Cesare?" she demanded. "What happened to him?" 

"He is dead." He raised the blade in his hand and waved it at her. "I told you; he misjudged the stroke of an axe." 

Jehona screamed with rage, beating her fists silently against the wall of her prison, and howling curses up at him. Suddenly her scream became a high-pitched shriek, and she staggered backwards, hugging herself as if trying to hold her body together. 

As the change began, Fenton watched in fascination. The stretching, snapping sound as the bones changed shape and the sinews realigned. The elongation of the skull. The brutal rearrangement of the brain and other organs. The sprouting hair and curving claws. And over it all, the undiminished howl of pain from the woman trying to resist the hostile takeover of her body. 

Fenton shook himself and pulled away from the sight. There was no time to waste. Seizing the ladder, he lowered it into the pit and climbed down, jumping the last few feet, the silver axe in his hand. The grey-brown beast lay on its side, panting in the shadows, exhausted from its transformation. It was not as big as Fenton had thought it would be -- barely twice the size of an ordinary wolf -- but then, the girl was small. He hoped its relative scrawniness would not have an adverse effect on his own transformed size and power. 

The wolf saw him, and struggled to its feet, lips drawn back in a silent snarl. Its eyes, like molten gold, still burned with hatred. 

Fenton crouched, grinning, arms spread. "Come here to me, my little bitch." 

The beast lunged at him, and he danced away, making a feint with the axe. They circled one another warily. The wolf was limping. It was lame in one of its forepaws as well as the left hind leg. Fenton smiled. This would be child's play. 

He feinted again to the left, and when she snapped at him, he swung around the other way, striking a heavy blow to her neck. There was a sudden smell of burning, and the wolf howled as the silver seared its flesh. Blood poured from the wound, but still she came on, stalking him, eyes intent. 

Her next lunge was slower, and the axe caught her in the flank this time. She stumbled. Fenton could see she was weakening, but she was still a threat. If he did not time it just right, she might kill him, even now. He kept his eyes on her, moving always backwards, always away, around the curving edges of the pit. She almost had him for a moment when he forgot about the ladder, and tripped over it, but he rolled away as he fell, narrowly avoiding her gnashing jaws. 

After that, it was only a matter of time. 

At last she staggered, falling on her side, and lay panting, bleeding from half a dozen smoking wounds. Her eyes stayed fixed on him as he stepped nearer, holding out his left forearm. 

"You want it," he murmured to her. "Your kind always do." 

Her muscles bunched, and with a last surge of strength, she threw herself at him, teeth sinking into the flesh of his arm. Gritting his own teeth against the pain, he swung the axe down hard, burying the blade at the base of her skull. 

The heavy body shuddered and went limp, crushing jaws loosening their grip. Fenton threw her off and stared down at the curving row of deep punctures that encircled his forearm. The wounds stung and bled freely. He grinned, his belly quivering with excitement. He had done it. Now there was only the ritual to complete. 

This was not something Fenton had learned in any of his books; he was improvising. The moment was too important to be allowed to pass without at least a symbolic gesture, and a properly-performed ritual would only add to his power. Kneeling on the ground beside the wolf's body, he dipped his fingers into its wounds, using the blood to draw runes of Power, Fortune, Taking, and Victory on his own skin. He slit the beast's throat, cupping his hands to catch the blood that still flowed in a slow trickle, then threw his head back, raising his hands towards the moon. 

"I am consecrated in the blood of the Wolf, and by the light of the moon," he called out, "reborn and renamed upon this night as Fenrir Greyback." Bringing his cupped hands to his lips, he drank deeply, the tang of hot silver on his tongue. 

There was blood everywhere. Much more than when he had killed the old man. Cesare had refused to turn him, but even so, he deserved some reward for leading him to Jehona, so Fenrir had granted him his greatest wish: he had not died alone. 

He laid a hand on the beast's flank. The wiry fur was sticky with blood, but the body was still warm, and Fenrir was still hard with the excitement of what he had accomplished. 

_It should be three times,_ he thought again. _Three times, to take her power and make it mine._

When he had finished, he picked up the axe once more, using the heavy blade to knock loose one of the wolf's teeth. This, he would take with him -- a keepsake and memento of his quest, and of the great thing he had achieved. Out of curiosity, he touched the silver axe head to his arm. Immediately, the flesh began to blister. There was a smell of burning hair. Fenrir grinned. 

Climbing up the ladder, the new-made werewolf sat under a tree, laying the blood-smeared axe on the ground before him. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply all the scents of the forest, now sharper and clearer to his nose. Leaves and grass, earth and wood, small animals and decomposing plant matter. And overlaying it all, the thick, rich scent of blood, making his belly rumble and his mouth water. 

He would wait there for the dawn, and the return of the mother. Then, he would go back to the farmhouse, where the father and young sister lay waiting for him. 

Fenrir Greyback stretched and leaned back comfortably against the trunk of the tree. He looked up into the face of the last full moon he would ever see with human eyes, and sighed with satisfaction at a job well done.


End file.
